


A promise

by acrosspontneuf (FangedAngel)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Forehead Kisses, Gentleness, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Pining, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25211032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/acrosspontneuf
Summary: At an undisclosed time and in an undisclosed place, a bard and his witcher meet again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 106





	A promise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sternenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sternenstaub/gifts).



> Based more on the TV show than the other media, though some of it may filter into this. Some mention of people being shitty to witchers. No big spoilers, just lots of yearning with a big focus on softness.
> 
> The unnamed barkeep is a mood.
> 
> For my wonderful Sternchen.

Words are transient mistresses, laughing at Jaskier as they dance around each other, just out of his grasp. The tavern is loud with fragments of extremely uninteresting and incoherent conversations clashing into each other, the chaos of it overwhelming all his senses. Jaskier crosses out yet another disappointment of a word hard enough to break yet another nib. He watches his embarrassing attempts at verse burn in the hearth after that and seriously considers drowning his failure into several pints of Rivian Kriek. The few coins in his pouch ring out hollowly, another mocking sound. There’s barely enough for the comforting warmth of one drink, and not a magnanimous face in sight in this miserable little village. Jaskier isn’t quite sure where he is - the borders of the Northern kingdoms keep changing these days, and these despair-filled meaningless places have always looked the same.

Thirst leads Jaskier to the few drink-addled patrons gathered around the bar. He boasts loudly about the many ways in which his new songs will change the history of music, but he barely even earns a glance, even when he brandishes his lute. He can’t quite commit to the performance and he feels no sense of triumph when the barkeep pushes a pint of watery beer towards him out of sheer pity. How the mighty have fallen.

Jaskier sips on the beer and wonders where things have gone wrong. He’s been on the road too long, wandering somewhat aimlessly, too far away from the cities, too far away from his own patrons. He even had to sell one of his sapphire rings, much to his distaste. He can only imagine how his family would sneer, even though all they gave him was a name and the incessant need to live far beyond his means. 

He’s been on this journey in search for what he’s been missing, the call of adventure making him restless while lounging on the feathered pillows of countesses. It’s taken him this long to acknowledge that perhaps he’s missing a someone rather than a something. The knowledge hasn’t helped at all.

When the door to the tavern opens, freezing cold rushes in with the wind and finds the hole in Jaskier’s hose, the one right over his ankle that only he knows about. The sudden cold is a distraction that keeps him from turning around until the new arrival stands right next to him and Jaskier jumps, spilling beer over his hands. 

He stares at Geralt, for once at a loss for words. He’d suspect some sort of witchcraft at play here, but he’s been on Geralt’s track for weeks. It’s not surprising Geralt would notice. It’s not surprising that he’s here. It’s been at least a year since Jaskier last saw him, but he knows Geralt so well that nothing is new about him, other than the some scars, and perhaps the fresh blood dripping from his forehead down his cheek.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at Jaskier. The blood keeps dripping as Jaskier stares until the barkeep, exasperated, throws a wet rag at him to deal with the spilled beer. Geralt looks at the beer, then at the barkeep, and Jaskier observes the stand-off, words still failing him like they have all night.

‘He’ll have a Rivian Kriek,’ Geralt says, his head slightly tilted towards Jaskier. He throws some coins on the table and the barkeep looks at him like he’s about to challenge him to a Gwent match, but Jaskier remembers how to speak before he can do so.

‘That’s not what I drink, you don’t know what I drink,’ he sputters, indignance not quite reaching his tone.

Geralt looks at him then, eyebrow raised, still bloody, so very him. Jaskier drinks and pretends not to savour it.

'What manner of creature did that to your face?' he asks, looking at the counter instead of at Geralt, trying to decipher how many people have leaned against it like they are. Far too many, judging by all the marks in the wood.

'A terrifying group of creatures called humans,' Geralt says, dry like kindling and just as ready to burn, and Jaskier stares at him, drink and counter forgotten.

'Who?' he asks, and his voice only trembles at the end of the word, but Geralt catches it and looks away from him.

'Someone with great aim,' he replies, like it's funny, but the tension in his shoulders suggests otherwise. 'It's only a scratch, no healing required.'

Jaskier grips both the glass and the counter too tightly, hoping neither of them will shatter. The barkeep is wise enough to step away, into a back room. Other than two patrons napping in front of the hearth, they are alone.

'Geralt,' Jaskier says, reaching out, his hand on Geralt's shoulder.

Geralt shrugs him off and inches away and Jaskier's heart stutters, so he leans on the counter and drinks the rest of his beer. At any other time, he'd continue chattering away, but his mood is dark. Anger turns the cherry taste of the beer bitter on his tongue. He wishes he were someone strong and intimidating, a shield against prejudice and stupidity, but he is nothing. He doesn't even have words, those flighty shallow things he usually hides behind.

Geralt notices the silence, judging by his glances at Jaskier, but he doesn't fill it. That is, as ever, Jaskier's responsibility.

'Why are you here?' he asks, once the beer is done and the barkeep still has not returned.

'You were looking for me,' Geralt says, like that's an explanation.

Jaskier laughs, but that sound is bitter too. 'I've been looking for you for years. You don't usually notice.'

Geralt looks at him, but Jaskier refuses to meet his gaze. He's tired of those eyes seeing right through him. If he looks at Geralt he'll want to wipe the blood off his face and that will be shrugged off too. He's tired of the thoughts he doesn't acknowledge, of the feelings hiding under his ribs. He should be in a city right now, any city. He should be comfortable and draped in finery and fed grapes by assorted beautiful nobles. Instead, he's here, with a hole in his mud-spattered hose and a sullen witcher and all the words he can't say.

Jaskier stares at a bottle that is so dusty he can't identify it. He's not sure how much time passes until he hears a clink of metal and looks down to the counter space between them to find a familiar sight - his sapphire ring.

'Where did you find this?' he asks, words rushed and breathless. He slips the ring on his one bare finger and smiles at the sight. When he looks up, there's a distinct upwards curl to the corner of Geralt's mouth.

'A travelling merchant tried to extort me for it. He ended up giving me a discount.'

'My thanks,' Jaskier says, before spotting a rag that actually looks clean behind the counter. He fishes it out and scrubs the blood from Geralt's face briskly, like he's a medic. Geralt doesn't complain, but he does wince when Jaskier brushes over the cut and Jaskier's free hand curls around Geralt's neck in reply, thumb soothing along Geralt's jawline. Geralt says nothing, but his hand is on Jaskier's hip. He doesn't move after that, and Jaskier suspects he's not breathing much as Jaskier continues wiping the blood off like it's nothing. He's standing too close and he doesn't care. Geralt's skin is warm. It shouldn't be surprising. It shouldn't be enticing.

'There, that's better,' Jaskier says, dropping the rag back behind the counter but not moving away. 'Now you can tell me who did this and we can go pay them a visit.'

Geralt shakes his head, but the movement isn't enough to shake Jaskier's hand off.

'They were young, Jaskier. And they were right,' Geralt says, his voice hollow and his eyes empty. Jaskier's hand freezes, his thumb under Geralt's chin.

'Don't-' he says, but it's not enough to stop Geralt from speaking.

'I am a monster. That is all I'll ever be.'

'No,' the word tears itself from Jaskier's throat, both angry and despairing. Geralt's face betrays little, as usual, but a muscle in his jaw jumps. Jaskier can feel it. 'No,' he says again, soft like a secret, leaning in. Emotion flickers across the stillness of Geralt's expression as Jaskier presses their foreheads together. 

'Jaskier, this is what I am. You need to stay away,' Geralt says, words tumbling over each other in a way that's unlike him. He still doesn't move away.

'The time for that has come and gone, my friend,' Jaskier says, and for the first time in a while he feels like himself. 'You are no monster.'

Geralt's mouth twists but Jaskier is distracted by how intoxicating his eyes are up close. There's barely any space between them. Geralt's hands are on his waist now, as steady as ever. 

'If I am not a monster, then I am at least monstrous,' Geralt states, the words bitten off like he hates the sound of them as much as Jaskier does. 'You shouldn't touch me.'

'I'll stop touching you if you want me to, not because I should,' Jaskier replies, and the years of history between them lie in the sliver of space between their faces. He's stifled too many of his words through their time together and it turns out he has no need for them now. His hand tangles in Geralt's hair and he marvels at being allowed to do so. There's something like magic in the air. The barkeep has most likely fallen asleep somewhere. Perhaps Jaskier is asleep too, but his dreams can't compare to the giddy reality of feeling. He closes his eyes to keep from drowning in Geralt's eyes, but opens them again when he can't stand their absence. He breathes, and Geralt breathes. Around them, stillness.

'A creature shouldn't be touched like this', Geralt says, and Jaskier would roll his eyes but he presses his lips to the sharpness of Geralt's cheekbone, to the softness in the corner of his mouth. 'Jaskier, I don't deserve-'

The kiss is not how Jaskier thought it would be. It's beautifully real and gentle in a way he hasn't expected. There's no giving or taking, no dominance or submission. It's just the two of them, meeting, moving together in a harmony he will never be able to emulate in song. It's not like anything he's been used to, the dizzying but shallow romances, the indulgences. This kiss is filled with meaning in a way they've both shied away from before. 

When it ends, Jaskier lingers on the fullness of Geralt's bottom lip before he takes one of the hands Geralt had on his waist. He kisses Geralt's palm, then the inside of his wrist, promises he has no words for but fully intends to keep. The expression on Geralt's face is dangerously open, full of the feelings that the ignorant masses try to deny him. Jaskier smiles at him, probably with a great deal of self-satisfaction. Geralt scowls, but it doesn't quite ring true.

'Where is my best friend Roach?' Jaskier asks, feeling light. They still haven't moved away from each other. Jaskier's words return to him, songs that he will never share. He wants the world to stop for a little while longer, but he's already been granted too many wishes tonight.

'She's not looking forward to spending time with you,' Geralt says, and the lightness that Jaskier feels paints Geralt's smile in a way that makes Jaskier kiss Geralt's forehead like he's well-versed in such gestures.

Geralt doesn't comment, but his movements are slow and clumsy in a way Jaskier's never seen before, so he kisses Geralt's cheek next just to indulge himself more. For just another moment, Geralt is not Geralt the witcher. For just another moment, he is Jaskier's.

Dawn is breaking by the time the barkeep returns, saying precisely nothing about his extended absence. Jaskier nods at him and picks up his lute and his satchel.

'Where are we going?' he asks, even though he doesn't need an answer.

Geralt shrugs, opening the door, and letting Jaskier walk out in front of him. 'Wherever the path may lead.'

It's a promise.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A silent promise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25216840) by [Sternenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sternenstaub/pseuds/Sternenstaub)




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